


brightly above

by fruitwhirl



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, the fluffiest fluff to ever fluff, this has 0 plot and it's just me talking about height difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 05:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14395059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitwhirl/pseuds/fruitwhirl
Summary: (Once, they were lying in bed with the duvet resting on their bare waists, and they’re still a little tipsy and he’s pretty sure he became re-acquainted with four-drink Amy because she’s still dragging her mouth along his collarbone. Eventually she comes back up to kiss him fully, and against his lips she giggles softly, whispers that she loves her heels, that they’re her “captain heels” and that she owes all of her success to her trusty boots.)a meditation on amy's love for heels





	brightly above

**Author's Note:**

> ask anyone and i'm literally OBSESSED with the True Peraltiago Height Difference because, according to google, andy and mel have the same exact heights as jake johnson and zooey deschanel (nick and jess) respectively and like?? i couldn't not talk about it.
> 
> this was supposed to be really short, yet this remains nonsensical and severely unedited. whoops.
> 
> title from a song of the same name by brittain ashford.

Amy likes heels.

And Jakes likes that she likes heels.

Really, they’re quite useful. Throughout all eight years of working with her, he’s always been able to tell when she’s in the room by the _clip-clop_ of her heels. Additionally, most of her pantsuits are just a _little_ too long without the shoes, and with them, the hem just barely grazes her ankle. And the taller she is, the more intimidating she is to suspects—well, she can be plenty scary in just her five-foot-six glory, but the extra few inches definitely helps to crack her tougher cookies.

(Once, they were lying in bed with their duvet resting on the dips of their bare waists, and they’re both still a little tipsy and he’s pretty sure he became re-acquainted with four-drink Amy because she’s still slowly dragging her mouth along his collarbone. Eventually she comes back up to kiss him fully, and against his lips she giggles softly, whispers that she loves her heels, that they’re her “captain heels” and that she owes all of her success to her trusty boots.)

But most importantly, he thinks, with the height difference between them often (mostly) erased by her clunky shoes, it’s easier to kiss her, too—she can cup his face more fully like she tends to do, smooth her thumb along his cheek without the need to stand on the tips of her toes. His hands can linger on her hips, and when it comes down to it, he finds that it takes less effort (and, thus, less time) to unhook her bra and let it fall to the floor. When she has that added height, she becomes _much_ more dominant, shifting naturally into one of his favorite versions of Amy (which is to say, all versions of Amy are his favorite, aside from perhaps the Amy that just won’t stop trying to get him to eat eggplant; it’s not _his_ fault that the vegetable is synonymous with dicks in his head now). This version likes to push him up against the door, any door really—their front door, bedroom door, the door to the rather large supply closet they found on the third floor—and nip at his jaw, fingers drifting to his cropped hair and firmly lodging there. He can trail his own lips along the column of her throat without craning his own neck too much and it gives him a chance to simultaneously appreciate other things about her, like the hitch of her breath when he hovers over her pulse point. She’ll toe off her heels sometimes and he’ll lift her up to sit on the nearest tabletop so they don’t lose their established angles and holy shit is it great.

But in the mornings, when her heels sit neatly by the coat rack and she’s just in her socks and cotton shorts and parked in front of the bathroom mirror, applying her makeup, he’ll creep up behind her (well, it’s not in any manner stealthy, since she can see him in the reflection, and the way she rolls her eyes holds no heat) and press his mouth to the top of her head so he can smell the lemon of her shampoo. His hands will fall to rest just above her navel, skimming underneath the vest top she wears to bed, and sometimes she takes her right hand and laces her fingers through his while her left applies mascara.

(During a rather spectacular make-out session on their couch, with empty Chinese takeout cartons scattered on the coffee table and with her floral blouse flung somewhere near the dry bar, Amy pulled back to take a breath, place her hand over his as it rests on her cheek. He thought she was going to say something profound, but she just smiled softly, kissed his forehead and muttered against his skin: “In Latin, _dextra_ means right hand while the left hand is referred to as _sinistra.”_ And he couldn’t help but chuckle, and she shook her head. “No, I mean, why did the Romans think that one hand was one moral than the other? It makes no sense.” Jake didn’t know how to respond, because he sure as hell wouldn’t know why a bunch of Italians wanted to make an appendage evil, so he simply pushed her back against the cushion, got to work on her clavicle, and reveled when there’s a sharp intake of breath.)

Amy will sigh contentedly as his lips slide to her temple, and he’ll be _just_ about to let them drop to ghost along her shoulders when she’ll turn her chin suddenly, brushing her palm against his cheek and pulling his mouth down to meet hers. (She really likes doing that—holding his face in her hands—and honestly he has no qualms, but he thinks that, for a change of pace, it’s easier to cup _her_ face in his palms when she doesn’t have the boost of her heels, and smile as he feels her rise on the balls of her feet as he kisses her more firmly.) More often than not, Amy will do that _before_ putting on lipstick, but sometimes it slips her mind and the skin of his jaw ends up streaked with a dark mauve or light pink and he has to use one of her makeup wipes to get it completely off before work.

But more than that, she likes to tuck her chin on his shoulder when he’s trying to cook, rest her head against his cotton clad arm. There’s something soft about heel-less Amy Santiago, something that causes a certain warmth to pool in his chest when she has to stand on her tiptoes to reach the plates at the top of their cupboard.

However, when she lets it slip that she has to start wearing her uniform rather than her usual pantsuits, Jake would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bummed, at least momentarily—her multitude of pantsuits, which range from simple neutrals to one that’s a deep burgundy, may be one of the most “Amy” things about her, and everything is changing so fast (he doesn’t even want to think about who will fill the role of his desk partner) and he doesn’t even have her _pantsuits_ to rely on.

(However, watching her beat-cops almost comically trailing after her like tall, gigantic puppies in contrast to her small frame is one of the main reasons he frequently finds himself on the third floor. The other reason, of course, is sequestering her during her break in one of the empty supply closets that Scully accidentally revealed to him a few days ago.)

But then he sees her in the kitchen that morning, slowly stirring creamer into her warm coffee, and she’s clad in her sergeant uniform and he didn’t think it was possible but he’s sure that he somehow loves her more than ever before. He quickly strides over to her, presses his lips to the skin above her eyebrows lightly, then rests his forehead against the top of hers, and she sighs something sweet, soft.

 

**Author's Note:**

> let me know your thoughts in the comments below!


End file.
